The West
by Grav
Summary: In the aftermath of the wedding, Lorne thinks about the west and the women of Atlantis. A Wildwest Atlantis AU fic.


AN: For my AU Ficathon assignment, I got an AU I'd never heard of (wildwestlantis) and an author I admire (mierac). Understandably, I was a little nervous. I read through the archive (link) and really enjoyed it (to the point of plot bunnies…). Even better, I got to play with our own Major Lorne.

A huge thank you goes to melyanna who betaed in an extreme fashion including, but not limited to, a complete restructuring of the fic. She put at least as much into this as I did, and I can't say 'thank you' enough times.

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis is the property of people who are not me. Even though these people may look (and smell) more like the cast of Dr. Quinn (which I also don't own), they are still not mine. I am just here for the pretty.

Spoilers: None for the show, rather significant for "Deals With Weddings". In the aftermath of the wedding, Lorne thinks about the west and the women of Atlantis.

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**The West**

If he could paint Elizabeth Weir, he would paint her in oils. They were new and hard to come by out in the west, but they had a quiet and resolute sort of power in them. The kind of thing you noticed and respected automatically. The last time he'd gone into Denver, he'd seen some, all laid out on a palette for men of better means than him to buy. The rich and layered colours conveyed authority, once painted they would be hard to alter, but they would age gracefully and never give up a measure of the worth.

If he could draw Laura Beckett, he would use charcoal. Charcoal could be smudged around the edges to give a sense to movement and shaded to give a sparkle in the eye. Charcoal was simple and practical and always had something to contribute, regardless of the situation. Charcoal was forgiving of mistakes, but merciless in revealing the faults of the surface it rubbed up against. It was adaptable and strong, standing out against the background and leaving as many marks upon the user and it did upon the page.

If he could sculpt Teyla Emmagan, he would work with clay. He remembered stories from the Bible about Nebuchadnezzar and mud brick. Daniel had told him that once mud brick was fired, it was more durable than the Earth itself, standing regardless of what was done to it, protecting all that it sheltered. So many depended on Teyla and she had led her people through so much that he could not think of a better way to honour her.

If he could paint or draw or sculpt Kate Heightmeyer, he would want to do it for the rest of his life.

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The first time Marcus called her sweetheart, he had been in prison and she had been a widow for less than an hour. She hadn't been hysterical or emotional, and that scared him more than anything. In the space of a day, her estranged husband had shown up, attacked her, been attacked and threatened to exert his spousal rights by taking her away. That same husband had been shot, but not before shooting her best friend. Marcus expected a woman, a person, to show some evidence of fraying nerves.

But Kate was calm. She spoke to him in a manner only slightly distracted and then left for Dr. Beckett's to find out the details of Laura's condition. That morning, Marcus had been thinking about weddings. That night, he spent in jail.

He never asked Sheriff Caldwell to let him out. Even with Samuels dead, Marcus was guilty of assault, and now that he knew she was safe, he had no trouble serving his sentence. In the morning, with five days left, Caldwell had opened the cell. He didn't say anything, just opened the door and sat down at his desk and Marcus didn't hesitate to leave.

She was waiting for him. She was pale and drawn, much like she had been when she arrived in town, and now he knew that it wasn't distance and travel that made her express hardship. She held a shirt in her hands. She didn't make men's clothing, though she did repair them and he knew the shirt must have come from Miss Weir. But it was clean and his was not, the buttons torn and stained from dirt and not a few frustrated tears.

She didn't say anything, but he knew that now was not the time for the talk they needed so badly to have. They were free. He could wait a little longer.

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He never insinuated that she owed him something for not telling him the truth for all those years, but he could see in her eyes sometimes that she felt something was owed. In his mind, he courted her twice. The first time had ended badly and he was determined that the second time would be favourable for them both.

His smithy wasn't a particularly good place for talking. The café was out of question as well. He had no intention of parading about in front of the town; they had enough to gossip about. She was uncomfortable in her own house and had spent the last few nights in Laura's old room above Miss Weir's store. The lock on her door was broken and her things were cast about. She was braver than she had been, and not as brave all at the same time.

Next to the smithy there was a stable for the horses of those who lived in town. Marcus wasn't directly responsible for their well-being, but he often fed them during the day if business wasn't steady. The hayloft always stocked with fresh hay, though the smells of the horses below wafted up in generous amounts. It was to the hayloft that he took her, and there they began again.

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The West, his father had always said, was hard on the womenfolk. This was why Marcus Lorne Sr. stayed in the woods of Pennsylvania when the rest of the country ran west. The family mill was profitable and there was work enough for both sons without needing the expansion promised under western skies. So Marcus and his brother and their four sisters grew up in the relative order of the East.

After his time in the army, after taking orders and facing the risk of dying for someone else, Marcus needed the horizon. His brother had sons of his own now; the mill was in good hands, so Marcus didn't feel quite so bad about leaving it. He didn't go to Colorado for the gold, he went for the ground and the space and the mountains. He went to see if the West was really as hard as his father said.

He had found Atlantis by accident. He'd stayed in Denver for a few days, but it was too noisy and at the train station there was a sign posted calling for a blacksmith in an out of the way town. The army had no use for millers, but they had use for a miller's strength, and Marcus had spent a rotation in the smithy where he'd learned enough to strike out for this new town with hope in his heart.

The blacksmith in Atlantis was old and rheumatic and hanging on only to train a replacement. Neither of his sons had survived childhood, so the old man had been forced to cast a wider net. He caught Marcus Lorne, and Lorne took to Atlantis like a fish to water. There was the ever present danger of the Wraith and a myriad of other ways the world could end for a man who spent his days surrounded by fire and incandescent metal, but Marcus was happy.

And he would remember forever the day that Miss Heightmeyer came to town.

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It was sunny and dry, so when the stagecoach rolled into town, it was nearly concealed in the dust it stirred up off of the road. Marcus' shop was at the edge of town, mostly for safety, so he was the first to see the coach roll by. He looked up the street and saw curious faces begin to line the windows and Sheriff Carter stepped out of his gaol on to the low wooden porch for a clearer look of the outsiders.

The coach rarely came to Atlantis. Even rarer still did it bear unexpected passengers. Deputy Mayor Jack O'Neill appeared on the porch next to Sheriff Carter and caught the reins that the stagecoach driver tossed him to secure the horses. The dust settled as the driver began unloading trunks from the back of the coach.

The door of the coach opened, and Marcus could almost hear the town hold its breath.

The town of Atlantis had a fantastic rumour mill. In the days following Miss Heightmeyer's arrival, Marcus heard a dozen variations of the circumstances that had led to her Atlantis. Most of this happened when he took his lunches at Miss Mal Doran's café, and Marcus took the rumours as he took his meals: with salt. Still, there were a few consistencies in the stories he heard. Miss Heightmeyer had no parents and had come west looking for a way to survive, but he doubted very much that the army or the Confederacy had anything to do with it. She had been pale and drawn when she arrived in town, but the journey was long and not particularly comfortable, that much Marcus remembered well and knew for a fact.

She came into his shop to ask for a lock. Marcus didn't make the locks himself, but he did affix them and he also cast keys when they were needed. Most people in Atlantis didn't lock their doors, but Miss Heightmeyer lived alone and kept shop in her house, so Marcus didn't see anything too out of the ordinary about it. He installed it on a rainy day and she made him a cup of tea when it was done.

On his way back to his own shop, Marcus didn't smile quite so big as usual when Miss Wittinger called out to him.

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The women of Atlantis took to Miss Heightmeyer immediately. Well, the women that Marcus held good opinions of did anyway. Miss Weir and Miss Cadman went frequently to the dress shop and often brought Miss Heightmeyer with them to lunch at Miss Mal Doran's. Miss Carter went out to the Athosian encampment and brought Teyla Emmagan into town specifically to make introductions. Within a few weeks, it was like Miss Heightmeyer had never lived anywhere else.

And when her husband came to town and threatened her, it wasn't the men of Atlantis that saved her. The West turned menfolk one of two ways: those that ignored the law, and those that held it up whatever the cost. The West only did one thing to the womenfolk. It brought them together and together it made them strong.

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**finis**

GravityNotIncluded, May 2007


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